


I'll Always Find You (No Matter What)

by TheDarkSideofEnergon



Series: After the War [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, First Kiss, First Meetings, Jazz and Prowl sort of knowing everyone early in the war, Light Angst, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, implied slow burn, there are a lot of cameos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 02:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20038522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkSideofEnergon/pseuds/TheDarkSideofEnergon
Summary: Jazz chuckled. “Very little about mechs or femmes is logical. You just have to...flow.”“Flow?”Jazz shrugged again. “Can’t explain it, m’mech. It is what it is.”Or, the history of Jazz and Prowl, and how their story went in this grand "After the War" AU.





	I'll Always Find You (No Matter What)

**Author's Note:**

> So it’s been a bit. Finished the school year. That was nice. Anyways. While I’m planning an AUgust thing, here’s a thing to fill in another part of the “After the War” series that seems to have become a thing. Jazz and Prowl...and what their story is in this. As always, unbeta’d and following whatever this AU has become.

The war had truly started that day. Six Cybertronian cities were bombed into the ground by Decepticon and Council alike. They never knew they were working together, (and nobody knew the Council had a hand in it until much, much later) but as the Council targeted Kalis, Crystal City and Vos, the Decepticons hit Tyger Pax and Uraya. 

Both of them hit Praxus. 

And that’s where they met. In the ruins of the city.

Jazz, junior officer in the Autobot’s Special Operations division, stood in the command center set up in front of the old city archives, keeping an eye on the casualty reports coming in. Quickblade, the tactical officer in charge of his unit, would normally be here, but one look at the ruins of his home city and the death tolls rolling in and he had immediately begun to purge his tanks. Everyone else was in the field, which left Jazz and a couple of even more junior officers and enlisted mechs in charge of “base.” _ Really _ , Jazz thought briefly, _ the gangs in Polyhex were better organized _. “All units, report in.” 

“Found half a dozen mechs in sector 10.”

“Eight in 19.”

“Three femmes and a sparkling in 13.”

“Two mechs in 21.”

Reports flowed in. There weren’t many survivors, but there were some. Something on one of the radars caught his eye. “What’s goin’ on in sector 2?”

A skinny Kaonite (who Jazz seemed to remember being called Hardhelm) scanned the area again. “Unknown. No Autobots reported in that area still.”

Jazz didn’t pause. “‘M goin’ out. You’re in charge.” Jazz didn’t wait for the acknowledgement before he transformed and sped off towards the nearby area. Reaching his destination, he pivoted and transformed back, energon blade at the ready. He caught a scrabbling coming from a nearby pile of rubble at the base of a half-gone house and scrambled over. Scanning with his handheld spark-signature scanner, he found nothing. But there was still that sound, and so, frowning, he began to dig. “Anyone in there?” He called.

“Prowl and Bluestreak.” A clear voice came from the pile. “We’re trapped in the basement.”

“We’ve been digging for hours! It’s like half the house is down here!” A different voice. Higher. Younger.

Jazz glanced up. “I hate to say it m’mechs, but that mi’ not be wrong. I’ll call a couple other mechs and we’ll get ya out of there, ‘k?”

“Assistance will be appreciated, however, the area is stable and there is only a 5.864% chance that that will change in the next several orns. We stored much of our extra energon stores down here, so we are in no danger of deactivating from low energy in the next decaorn.”

“But there’s nothing fun to do.”

“I cannot think of a case where a mech has deactivated from boredom, Bluestreak. I apologize for him. If there are areas that are not stable and still require assistance, please do not prioritize us over them.”

Jazz’s mouth twitched at the conversation, even though the two couldn’t see him. “While ‘m glad to know ya aren’t in danger, we should ‘ave still gotten ya out when we cleared this sector last orn.”

“If the assessment of the damage to our residence is accurate, and there is a high probability that it is, I am not surprised rescue crews failed to hear or scan us. The crystal and local rock debris would have scrambled your sensors past sixteen point eight feet.”

Jazz thought about that for a moment and froze. “Ya aren’t sayin’ we could be missin’ other mechs and femmes because they’re buried too deep, are ya?”

“Depending on how much of the city you have already covered, and depending on the overall damage, which I suspect to be extensive, there is a 89.6395% chance you have missed at least two hundred and twenty one, given the usual depth of forty-three feet of basements with a minimum of thirty and a maximum of fifty, and the fact that many choose to live down there during the warmer months, which we are in.”

Jazz cursed in every dialect he knew as he opened a comm line. “Officer Jazz t’ Control. I need mechs a’ m’ location in sector two now, an’ tell those in th’ field t’ recalibrate their sensors t’ account for extra crystal an’ stone layers. We’re lookin’ for mechs that could be as deep as fifty feet underground, still alive an’ buried. Get on it!” He barked into the comm line before closing it. “If I get ya out of there, can ya help recalibrate our sensors if they haven’t managed t’ do that yet?”

“Depending on the sensors you are using, most likely.”

“You may be more of a hero than anyone else today, m’mech. What did ya say yer designation was?”

“Prowl.”

“‘M Jazz. We’re gonna get ya out.”

Fifteen breems later, a coughing Bluestreak was being pulled out, with Prowl not far behind. Jazz caught him as he slipped on the edge of the hole they had cleared.

“Careful, m’mech. Don’t be fallin’ back in.”

“That was hardly my intention.” Prowl straightened up, and Jazz got a good look at the mech. Slightly shorter than himself, but with a similar black-and-white paint job, Prowl had Enforcer markings on his shoulders. 

Jazz’s vocalizer stuttered slightly before he forcibly reset it. “Still doesn’t mean ya couldn’t.” _ Smooth, Jazz. Smooth. Maybe ya can jump down the hole instead. _

Thankfully, Prowl didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he was too polite to comment on Jazz’s failure to act like a normal mech in front of a likely traumatized disaster victim. Not that Prowl appeared distressed. “Have your scanners been adjusted?”

“No.” Safe territory. The business at hand. “Can ya show us, and we’ll transmit instructions t’ th’ rest of th’ crew?”

“I can do that.” Prowl took Jazz’s scanner from him and adjusted the parameters. A few more spark signatures in the immediate hundred yards cropped up. 

“Fraggin’ council scanners. You, you, and you, start makin’ these adjustments. The rest of you, get diggin’. We’ve got mechs t’ save.” Jazz turned to Prowl. “Don’t know how t’ thank ya, mech. Maybe when this is all over ya can get a place in th’ Autobots. I mean, if that’s what ya want.”

Prowl looked around at the damage before focusing back on Jazz, blue optics icy. “Considering that my position in the Enforcers has become irrelevant, that would be my next option.”

Jazz nodded. “Come back t’ command with me? Ya might be able ta help us get more mechs out alive.”

“Lead the way.”

* * *

As it turns out, Prowl’s estimates and odds had been correct, but low. They’d missed almost five hundred sparks because of the Council-issued scanners. But with Prowl essentially running the re-clearing of sectors (a command that Jazz has immediately deferred to him, despite his civilian status), and Jazz helping with unstable, sometimes risky extractions, the survivor count went from a few hundred to a couple thousand. 

It was less than a percent of the city.

* * *

“For your actions and assistance in the ruins of Praxus, I am pleased to offer you an immediate commission and placement in the tactical division.” Sentinel Prime slid the datapad across to Prowl, which he signed after a scroll through and a flick of his doorwings. 

“I appreciate the opportunity.” Prowl responded as he handed the pad back to Sentinel. He glanced at Jazz, who grinned from audial to audial. Jazz had asked if he could be here for Prowl’s acceptance, and Sentinel had granted it, for some unknown reason. 

“Dismissed. Welcome to the Autobots, Officer Prowl.”

“Thank you, sir.” Prowl flicked his doorwig again and left, closely followed by Jazz, who merely saluted and practically skipped out. 

“So what now?” Jazz asked. 

“I am to report to the base here in Iacon at the seventh joor next orn.”

“Before that?” Jazz prompted.

Prowl looked at him, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

Jazz’s mouth dropped. “Do you not do anything for fun, m’mech?” 

Prowl hesitated. “I...read and play tactical games.”

Jazz’s visor flickered as he spun and walked backwards in front of Prowl. “Don’t know what I expected, but that doesn’t seem off for ya. Still, ya need some real fun. Grab a cube with me?”

“I am not sure how that constitutes ‘real fun,’ but I would not be opposed to refueling together.” 

Jazz laughed, a rich, smooth sound that Prowl rather liked. “Oh, ya have so much t’ learn, m’mech.”

* * *

Of course, any outing with Jazz went from solid mid-grade to high-grade in a jiffy if you showed even the slightest interest. They made their way from the small cafe to the bar down the street, which had more than a few Autobots in it. When they walked in, a general roar of “Jazz!” went up and Prowl folded his doorwings back to protect them from the sudden sensory input. 

So, Jazz was more popular than he had let on. Prowl filed this information away as a note on the ever-growing list of perplexing things he found out about this mech. For a junior officer, and one who seemed to be popular and lively, he certainly carried a lot of authority and a certain aura of reckless danger about him. Prowl had tried to dig up Jazz’s service record (he would be having words as soon as possible with whoever was in charge of record security — it had been a pitifully easy task to get in, even without any sort of Autobot access code), but had found nothing before his sudden appearance in the listings a vorn previously. It was as if the mech didn’t exist previous to that date, and yet he had already built this reputation for himself. Prowl tucked away the processing thread for later, setting it to an idle task for his battle computer to process. It might be interesting to see what it came up with later. 

Jazz wove his way through the crowd, Prowl following a little more slowly as he adjusted to the atmosphere, and stopped at the bar, leaning up against it. 

“Two cubes o’ high-grade for me an’ m’friend here, Swerve!”

“Coming right up, Jazz!” The bot spun around, pouring out the drinks, and serving the dozen other mechs looking for another one. Jazz waited patiently. Feeling a tap on his shoulder, he turned to see a bright red mech with a blue one hovering close behind. The meh cleared his throat.

“So you’re Jazz?”

“That I am, m’mech. Ya need me for something’?”

The other mech leaned up against the bar. “Oh, we just wanted to say thanks. You pulled us from the wreckage in Praxus a few orns ago. Joined up because of it.”

Jazz thought back. While it had been a long few orns, the mech’s paint job was fairly distinctive. “I recall ya. Glad you’re both alright. But really, it’s Prowl here ya should be thankin’. We wouldn’t have gotten half th’ mechs out that we did without him.”

The mech leaned over and nodded at Prowl, who tipped his doorwings in response. “It was my last duty as an enforcer.”

“Well, I’m living to take medical training and Breakdown here is joining the Wreckers because of it. Maybe we’ll see you out there someday.”

“Maybe. What’s yer designation, mech?”

“Knock Out.”

Jazz’s visor brightened. “Aren’t ya that racer that retired a few vorns back?”

Knock Out smirked. “I am. Left for this big lug here. Speaking of which…” he tilted his head at Prowl and winked at Jazz. “I’ll let you get back to yours.”

Jazz just faked a salute and grinned as he grabbed their drinks, the red and blue mechs fading back into the crowd.

“Why did you not correct them?” Prowl asked, tilting his head and doorwings.

Jazz just shrugged and set their drinks down on the table, sliding into one seat as Prowl sat down across from him. “Mechs like t’ see other mechs together. Besides, it’s not worth th’ effort for someone we’ll likely never see again, is it?”

Prowl’s battle computer processed that. “I...suppose that is true, even if it is not particularly logical.”

Jazz chuckled. “Very little about mechs or femmes is logical. You just have to...flow.”

“Flow?”

Jazz shrugged again. “Can’t explain it, m’mech. It is what it is.” He took a drink of his high-grade. “Now drink up. Swerve serves some of th’ best high-grade this side of th’ planet.”

A few hours and a very overcharged Jazz later, the two were standing in front of Jazz’s door, Prowl keeping Jazz upright. Sniggering at nothing in particular, Jazz fumbled with his key until Prowl sighed and took it from him, opening the door. Just because Jazz had no restraint with his drinks, it didn’t mean Prowl had gone as far down the turbo-rabbit den. Someone needed to be responsible, after all. 

“Thanks, Prowler~” Another development of the evening.

“Once again, that is not my name.”

“Don’ care. ‘S cute. Like ya~” Jazz poked Prowl in the nose, who simply sighed. 

“We need to get you to your berth with a cube of mid-grade for the 85.864% chance you end up purging your tanks.”

Jazz just gave Prowl a lopsided grin. “‘M gonna defy those odds~”

“Unlikely.”

“Well, yer just gonna have t’ stick around an’ find out~”

“I have other things to do.”

“But ‘m overcharged an’ need supervision~” Jazz wobbled and fell against Prowl. 

“I will stay until you are in recharge, which I predict will be in the next eight breems.”

“An’ wha’ are th’ odds there~?”

“98.637%.”

“A challenge~” And without warning, Jazz tipped himself onto the tips of his pedes and kissed Prowl full on the lips.

Prowl, for his part, was fighting everything his battle computer was telling him, his own logic center having a meltdown, and his own small, hidden emotional center celebrating an (admittedly) attractive mech throwing himself at him. But Prowl gently pushed Jazz away, regaining enough control to do that much.

“Jazz, you are overcharged and will regret all this in the morning, if your processor even records it.” 

“Don’ think I wouuu…” Jazz’s visor dimmed before switching off, as he went completely slack and Prowl caught him bridal-style, carrying him to the berth, laying him on his side and prepping a cube of energon and a mineral tablet. Tucking a thermal blanket around Jazz, he allowed himself a small smile at the curled up mech. He was very nice, Prowl thought. But perhaps that was simply the smaller amounts of high-grade talking, and so Prowl let himself out, making sure Jazz’s doors were locked behind him.

It would be nearly eleven vorns before he laid eyes on the mech again.

* * *

“I require a status report from every mech available!” Prowl, who had never before spoken in anything other than the plain monotone that had earned him his nickname of “drone” among the lower ranks, was yelling, choking on the acrid smile that filled the tactical department.

“We were hit by a localized cyberattack. I don’t know what caused the meltdown.” Prowl recognized the voice as belonging to a rookie by the designation of Gaslight, even with the hoarseness caused by smoke inhalation. 

“Anyone else?”

“Here. I was on break.” Prowl identified it as being Howler, the digital systems expert they kept on staff to file and protect their records.

“I think it was more than a cyber-attack. My console melted.” Prowl identified Skystop, another rookie. He ran through a list of who should have been working that day.

“Fuse? Quicksling? Lockbeam?” No response.

“Quicksling’s gone.” Howler responded. “Looks like his console also exploded and sent shrapnel through his spark.”

“Fuse and Lockbeam?”

Negatives from around the room. Prowl could see their murky shapes as the ventilation systems began to kick back in. This was messy, his computer supplied. Not the work of an expert. Then, as the smoke cleared, he saw the true extent of the damage. Small explosives had obviously been rigged into their consoles, meant to explode when the systems were hit, probably from a trigger in the virus. His battle computer reassessed and spat out a 61.944% chance this was precisely the work of an expert. Every console and station that dealt with some truly important part of tactical was warped beyond repair, and Prowl also suspected the cyber-attack had fully wiped their systems. Fuse and Lockbeam were nowhere to be seen.

“Get those consoles online and see if you can connect to the database from them. I want to know how much we lost and I want to know what’s going on outside this room. Lay Quicksling by the door, and someone find out where Fuse and Lockbeam are.” Prowl’s processor was working overtime, spinning away on one thing: 

_ Why now? _

* * *

Over in Special Ops, Jazz’s day was going much the same. Smoke had been cleared from the room, but now he could see the greying frames of five of his agents laying in various positions, some slumped at their consoles, others on the floor, and one unknown assailant, who Jazz had shot through the spark. A couple of faint coughs alerted him to another presence in the room, and he zeroed in on the spark-signature of Smokescreen, who was lying on top of another, fainter signature that registered as Bumblebee, the newest recruit. Jazz ran over.

“What’s the damage?” Smokescreen wheezed, clearing the smoke from his vocalizer.

“Dynamite, Slide, Flashspot, Hazard, and Sunscrap are all deactivated. So’s the mech who did this.” Jazz ran his servo over his visor, clearing debris, before getting Smokescreen to an upright position. A quick scan revealed only minor damage. Bumblebee was in worse condition, but at least stable for the moment. His self-repair seemed to already be at work. Jazz glanced at Smokescreen.

“Threw myself at him when the first flash-bang went off. Figured if the mech couldn’t see us and we were already on the ground…” Smokescreen trailed off.

Jazz put a servo on his shoulder. “You did good, m’mech.” Jazz looked around. “We need t’ get anything we can online. Someone wanted t’ cripple us, an’ we need t’ know why.” As he spoke, he thought of the Praxian tac he hadn’t thought of in vorns. He’d been brilliant. Maybe he could help them figure out some things, if he was still alive after all this time and war. He quickly composed a message and sent it off through the official channels, hoping the mech would get it.

Prowl, with his console (and the tac systems) well and truly gone, didn’t.

* * *

On opposite sides of the building, without knowing it, as both Prowl and Jazz worked to figure out why their systems had been crippled (and many other department heads, both assigned and suddenly thrown into the position by an unfortunate console or wire explosion, were wondering the same, as casualties were tallied and systems slowly brought back online in a haphazard, cobbled way reminiscent of someone building a city out of a scrapyard), a single assassin slipped into Sentinel Prime’s office, where he was sitting with his helm down, trying to figure out why he couldn’t reach his secretary (who was rapidly greying out in the hall). The Prime never knew what hit him.

The Council building exploded fifteen breems later, taking all the council members and the lone assassin with it -- Autobot and Decepticon sympathizers alike.

* * *

Even without the Council, the Matrix still found its way to a chosen mech. It had known for a long time that Sentinel wouldn’t win this war, merely prolong it until the entire race was gone. So it had begun to look, poking away through Sentinel’s systems in his recharge, using him as a body to search records with. It had found an archivist, Orion Pax, a kind, generous spark with a core of steel. This was the one that would win. So, whizzing out of the building, it searched out the recharging mech and attached itself to him.

Optimus Prime woke up the next morning.

* * *

Five orns later, systems restored to basic functions and the full realization of what had happened had hit everyone working in the Iacon base. Mechs and femmes alike went about their days with a sort of roteness, carrying out their normal duties. They all knew a new Prime, carrying the Matrix, had walked into the building four orns previously, taking over Sentinel’s office and locking himself in there. Nobody knew what was going on. Finally, after a decaorn of silence, a message went out to a dozen mechs and femmes, asking them to attend a meeting in the Prime’s office the next orn. Prowl simply nodded to himself and accepted the request. His battle computer had already supplied him with a 99.295% chance that the new Prime had spent the last two decaorns familiarizing himself with the new systems, with the mechs and femmes that had survived the attack and rebuilt their departments. His battle computer, however, had only supplied him with a 32.001% chance that he would be asked for a meeting. While he was the head of this particular department, there were many other, more experienced tac heads at other bases.

Jazz, for his part, was scratching his helm.

“Why woul’ th’ new boss-mech want me t’ go?” He asked his new second, Mirage, who had transferred in from another base to replace Dynamite. The two had hit it off right away, and Jazz was extremely pleased with the arrangement. His team was still understaffed -- as it was still just him, Mirage, Smokescreen, and Bumblebee -- though he had been informed that another mech, Hound, would be arriving in two orns.

“You are the head of the department.” Mirage pointed out, lounging back in a chair in much the same fashion as Jazz.

“Tha’ I am, but there’s other mechs out there who have more experience.”

“I would assume the new Prime’s picking whatever mechs or femmes he thinks will get the work done.” Mirage shrugged. “It’s what I would do, to pits with experience.”

Jazz just grinned at the mech. “Guess I’d better go, then.” He hit accept, and leaned back. “Now, do ya know this new mech we’re gettin’ or not?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mirage replied as primly as possible, standing to leave.

“Sure ya don’t.”

* * *

Optimus Prime sat at his desk, surveying each mech as they came in. Most looked uncomfortable. One, Prowl, caught his eye for how relaxed and focused he appeared. He glanced over the records again. Pulled from the ruins of Praxus with his ward, Bluestreak. Joined the Autobots with a recommendation from Jazz -- another mech he had asked to be here, though he had yet to show -- and personally signed on by Sentinel Prime, his predecessor. Interesting.

Then movement caught his eye as Jazz sauntered in, exactly two kliks before the scheduled meeting time.

Prowl turned to look at the new arrival.

Optimus watched as Prowl froze, doorwings raising before going stiff.

Jazz saw him at the same time and froze too, visor going a single color.

While Optimus couldn’t see his optics, he suspected they were locked on Prowl’s. Also interesting, he thought. He certainly hoped there wasn’t animosity there. That would certainly throw a wrench in his plans for the chain of command. The Matrix brushed against his consciousness, exuding a sort of… amusement, if Optimus was reading it correctly.

Well. He’d just have to watch and see what happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this has gotten a LOT longer than I anticipated, so I decided to break it up into two chapters. Never fear! The second part will arrive soon, and there will be FEELINGS. It might come out before AUgust, or it might come out in the middle of that. We will see. And yeah, Breakdown and Knock Out showed up again. Someday, I'll have a fic that doesn't involve them at all. Today is not that day.


End file.
